


have a piece of american dream (open up; swallow; on your knees)

by theviolonist



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Character Study, Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:13:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Do you like it?</i>
</p><p>Of course I like it. Why would I do it if I didn't like it? It's not like I <i>have</i> to do anything. I'm <i>Serena Van Der Woodsen</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	have a piece of american dream (open up; swallow; on your knees)

(One conversation she never had, because no one ever thought to ask her:

_Do you like it?_

Of course I like it. Why would I do it if I didn't like it? It's not like I _have_ to do anything. I'm _Serena Van Der Woodsen_.

_I don't know – I just thought…_

You and all the rest. It doesn't matter, though.

 

There would be a beat.

 

_So... what does it taste like?_

She wouldn't hesitate. 

— Heavenly. It fizzles on the tongue, like one of those sweets, with the colors, you know the ones. Sometimes it clogs your throat, it's heavy and golden, and sometimes... it tastes different every time. You've got to open your mouth wide, to take it all in. There's blood in it, you know. It's like having it in the palm of your hand.

 

 _Heart-eater_ , and — Yes, she would say. Yes, yes, _yes_. 

 

_How can you still love it, after all this time?_

It hasn't been that long. It only feels like it because you never tried. It's the problem with girls like you, you only ever watch from the sidelines. I don't think it would be the same for you, though. Me... it's pathological. No, it has to be. Otherwise—

 

_But how do you do it?_

She would give a flick of her graceful, golden wrist. 

— Oh, it's easy. Once you've done it twice, three times, it comes like breathing. To me, anyway, it did. You have to show a bit of thigh, be playful, easy, drink, laugh... only there's a choreography to it. It's like a recipe: if you don't put the ingredients in in the right order, it doesn't cook right. It's the same thing. Cook at room temperature, eat while it's hot.

 

Their eyes closed. They would imagine her behind the closed partition. It happens; she thrives on it, feeds from the electricity. 

 

— The trick is, you have to see it all. Of course they have faces and lips, but the best in a boy is the inside, the little folds of flesh, the way they purse their lips at you, the way they flicker like electric switches, the love they hide like it's a treasure. They talk like this, you know; I just respond. The etching of a kiss, a brush of fingers on the hip, that says more than all your Gossip Girl articles, any day.

They would want to hear it again, then— _How does it taste like?_

 

But she would change her answer every time. 

— You remember the old tales? Ambrosia, that's what they called it. Like honey, but sweeter, darker. I like them when they're full of sugar. You know apples at the beginning of summer, the ones they bring from France? Yeah, like that. You only have to take one bite before it drips on your chin, all sticky and perfect. That's what I like.

 

_Aren't you afraid?_

 

She would give it a second; shrug. —It doesn't matter. Being afraid doesn't help anything, you know? Besides, it's not like I can stop.

 

_How do you lure them in?_

I don't. They come to me. They love me. They'd love you, too, if you loved them like I do.

_So they just... reciprocate?_

You could say that. They ask me. They show me. They swarm around me and it's like an open market—have you ever noticed how everyone is beautiful here? You can cut yourself on some of those boys' jaws. But they don't bite. They never bite me. I'm the hand that feeds them, you know.

 

_I guess we just don't understand you._

She'd draw on her cigarette, but smile, and then close her eyes, some strange sort of easy sorrow. — No. I guess you don't.

 

They'd leave then, feet tapping lightly over the floor—she'd put a cigarette between her lips and draw: gather the smoke against the roof of her mouth, play with it, thick and weightless and almost intangible, and finally spit, a white river, flowing between her lips. Some boy, drawn by the extraordinary flash of her smile, would look over and twist his ankle.)

 

 

But instead, all they ask is—

"How could you do that? How dare you?" —who do you think you are?

they say, 

"You whore." 

"You goddess."

They spit and they simper, their mouths a cupid's bow directed up at her, trying to kiss the air she walks on, they curse her over and over again. They shrug; they condemn.


End file.
